But a toilet’s a toilet, Monroe thought as he maneuvered the cart down the wide aisle. The mercantile was busy, so it took a few minutes to reach the bathroom fixtures. He was surprised at how many styles basic white sinks, stools, and tubs came in. As he was comparing prices, a wiry guy wearing a vest with a store logo approached him. His black beard made him appear Plain—except he had a bushy mustache.
“You’re just in time for our tub sale!” he said cheerfully. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Bert, and I’m here to help.”
Monroe introduced himself and gestured along the large display of bathroom fixtures. “I’d like to stay pretty basic in my new house, but I could use some help getting a tub onto this cart—and a couple of toilets and some sinks, as well.”
Bert smiled. “You live within twenty miles of here? We can deliver all your stuff tomorrow and you won’t have to lift a finger.”
Monroe liked this guy already. “That would be a big help. We’re about three miles away, at Promise Lodge.”
“Ah—you one of the Plain folks that’s settled at the old church camp?” Bert asked as he pulled an order pad from his vest pocket. “Sounds like you’ll easily meet our two hundred dollar amount to qualify for free delivery, so where shall we start?”
Monroe appreciated the way Bert talked him through the features of the various toilets, sinks, and tubs. By the time Christine found him, he was ready for her to choose between the three styles he thought would be appropriate for an Amish bishop.
“This is my fiancée, Christine,” Monroe said as he took her arm. “Bert has been very helpful. We’re getting everything delivered tomorrow—”
He stopped talking and looked around. “Where’s Leola?”
Christine flashed him a smile. “I bought her a new embroidery hoop, scissors, floss—the works—so she’s sitting in the patio display, starting on a new project.”
Monroe realized yet again how many ways he loved and respected the beautiful woman who stood beside him. With her usual efficiency, Christine chose all the bathroom fixtures in the style that appealed to her, and then chose sinks for the kitchen and the mudroom, along with faucets and hardware. Bert wrote stock numbers down as she pointed to what she wanted.
“Wow,” he murmured as he finished. “This is the fastest I’ve ever seen a woman make up her mind about so many fixtures. Good job!”
Monroe chuckled. “Christine’s not one to waste anybody’s time or money,” he said proudly. “If you can mix some paint for us, Bert, we’ll be all set.”
“Let’s go to the service counter and I’ll have an associate enter your delivery information and your purchases from this department into the computer,” Bert said as he escorted them down the aisle. “Meanwhile, I’ll have a guy in the paint department waiting to help you, and your paint will go on the same order.”
“You’ve been a tremendous help, Bert. I appreciate it.”
At the service counter, Monroe watched in amazement. The sales associate was a young woman whose fingers flew over the keyboard as he gave his address. In a few minutes she had all the information she needed, and she began entering the items from Bert’s order sheet.
“Ready to pick your paint colors?” Monroe asked Christine as they headed down the aisle.
“I’m fine with the same colors Barbara and Bernice asked for,” she said, tucking her arm through his. “Let’s slip over this way to check on Leola. I hope she hasn’t wandered off.”
Monroe didn’t even want to think about the chaos Leola would cause if she started looking for him and couldn’t find him. As they approached the display of picnic tables, big umbrellas, and gas grills, he spotted her immediately and stopped walking. In her calf-length cape dress and white kapp, Leola looked out of place embroidering in a glider while English folks passed by with their shopping carts and kids—Lost in her own little world, he realized. She was so focused on her project she didn’t notice anyone else, however.
“You’re a genius,” he murmured to Christine. “Let’s get our paint before she spots us.”
Monroe took off toward the overhead sign for the paint department, thrumming with an ulterior motive. The mercantile was busy on this springtime Saturday afternoon, yet when he spotted an aisle where there weren’t any shoppers, he walked faster.
Christine kept up with him, looking around at the bins of bolts and nails on either side of the aisle they’d entered. “Do you men need more of this stuff to finish—”
“No, I need this.” Monroe felt like a kid with his first girlfriend as he framed Christine’s face with his hands and kissed her. Her low giggle, her eager response, made him wish they were alone in the wagon on the way home—so he kissed her for as long as he dared before releasing her.
“Well now, Bishop,” Christine murmured as she demurely straightened her kapp. “I’ve never been kissed in a store.”
“Glad to hear it.” Monroe’s pulse roared in his ears as he walked her toward the paint department. If I had my way, I’d marry you right this minute, sweetheart—or elope, as I’ve heard some English folks do.
Truth be told, however, he wanted Christine to enjoy the traditional ceremony and the company of her friends and family as they began their life together. And without a bishop to lead them in their vows, their marriage wouldn’t be valid in the eyes of the Old Order, so Monroe set aside his fantasies of a quick, immediate wedding.
“Is our kiss something we’ll need to confess at a church meeting?” Christine teased.
Monroe laughed. “I won’t tell if you won’t. Couples are entitled to keep a few things to themselves, don’t you think?”
Once again he delighted in Christine’s ability to choose her paint colors without hemming and hawing. She plucked a couple of paint sample cards from the long display of colors on the wall rack and handed them to him.
“This pale yellow, this off-white, and this light blue,” she said, pointing to the small colored squares. “You get to figure how many gallons we’ll need. Yellow for the kitchens, white for the front rooms and hallways—and ceilings—and the blue for some of the bedrooms. We’ll paint the remaining rooms with whatever colors we have left.”
“Sounds like a plan.” The gray-haired man at the paint counter wore a store vest with Stan on the name tag, and he was smiling at them. “Depending on how many gallons you want, we have these three colors in stock—and ceiling paint comes in five-gallon buckets. I can tint five-gallon buckets of your wall colors, too, if you’d like.”
“Hmm. That might be easier than dealing with so many cans,” Monroe said.
“And you can reuse the buckets for a lot of things,” Stan pointed out.
Monroe pulled a notepad and pencil from his pocket and estimated the square footage of the walls and ceilings in the two large homes. He rounded up by quite a bit and ordered ten gallons of each color and ten gallons of ceiling paint. “We’ll have other folks building homes in the future, so leftover paint won’t go to waste,” he explained to Christine.
“The Helmuths might want some of it for their store, too,” she said. “Let’s get new roller covers and foam brushes while we’re here. That’s what the girls like to use.”
“And if we take the ceiling paint with us, they can start first thing Monday morning, if they want to,” Monroe said.
“They probably will. Those girls have such a gut time spreading paint,” Christine said with a chuckle. “It gets them out of helping in the kitchen or with the laundry, but nobody minds. Minerva considers their painting a service project—and Lily and Fannie are ahead in their lessons—so she gives them time away from the classroom.”
Christine held Monroe’s gaze, her lips twitching with a smile. “We older girls don’t enjoy climbing ladders all day—and that’s the last thing Bernice and Barbara should be doing. We’re blessed to have such industrious daughters amongst us.”
Monroe pictured the female Helmuth twins, for a brief moment wishing that he would someday see Christine looking so round with
his child—but he set aside that useless thought. She was everything he wanted in a wife . . . and if he had no children of his own, he could pay more attention to the members of his congregation and their kids.
While the clerk located the ceiling paint on the shelf, Monroe and Christine selected large packages of roller covers and a couple sizes of foam brushes for painting the edges and the trim. After Monroe paid for all of his merchandise, the clerk grabbed a low, flat cart for them. Monroe placed the two five-gallon drums of white ceiling paint on it while Christine set the painting supplies alongside them.
“Thanks for doing business with us, folks,” he said. “The delivery driver will call you when he’s within fifteen minutes of your place.”
Monroe started down the central aisle with the cart, Christine at his side. “Maybe you could fetch Leola while I take this outside—”
“Monroe! Here I am!” a familiar voice called to them. “Don’t forget me!”
He stopped the cart, relieved to see that Leola was smiling from ear to ear as she hurried toward them with a bulging plastic sack from Nina’s Fabrics. “We were just coming to get you,” he said. “I hear you’ve been busy sewing.”
Leola’s forehead creased as she tried to figure out how Monroe had known what she was doing. Her concern vanished, however, when she spotted the cart. She hopped onto it and sat on one of the five-gallon paint buckets, as delighted as a little child. “Push me!” she said, oblivious to the customers who were watching her. “Give me a birthday ride.”
As he steered the cart toward the exit doors, Monroe almost envied Leola’s childlike view of the world—the simple things that excited her. After he loaded the paint and supplies into the wagon, he drove across the road to the bulk store and bought the fifty-pound bags of flour and other baking staples Beulah had requested. Leola had always been fascinated by the small bags and plastic containers of candies and cookie sprinkles displayed in Plain bulk stores, so Monroe wasn’t surprised that she joined him and Christine in the checkout line with an armful of treats.
“Gummy worms!” Leola whispered ecstatically. “And chocolate-covered raisins! And cinnamon disks and root beer barrels and peach rings!”
Monroe held Leola’s gaze as the Mennonite girl at the cash register rang up their purchases. “Promise me you won’t eat all this stuff before we get back to the lodge,” he insisted. “You know how sick you get when you eat too much sugary stuff.”
Leola’s expression waxed angelic. “I wouldn’t do any such thing, Monroe.”
When they returned to the wagon, Leola made no fuss about sitting in the back with the paint and the groceries. She immediately pulled out her embroidery. As Monroe drove, he occasionally peered behind him, pleased that she was too occupied with her stitching to open any of her sweets. He held the lines in one hand and Christine’s hand in the other, grateful to God that their shopping expedition had gone much more smoothly than he’d anticipated.
When they arrived at the lodge, Leola grabbed her treats and treasures and bolted upstairs to her room. Monroe hefted a sack of flour over his shoulder, gazing into Christine’s green eyes. “You are such a gift,” he murmured. “Do you suppose you could slip out after supper? Spend some time in the cabin with me? Or if that seems too cozy—”
“I’ll be there,” Christine whispered.
Monroe’s heart thumped rapidly. “I’ll repay you for what you spent in the fabric shop, and we can catch up with each other.”
“I like the sound of that.”
After they’d unloaded Beulah’s groceries, Monroe drove to the Helmuth place to drop off the paint. Both sets of twins were delighted that the girls could start painting their ceilings on Monday—and they insisted that Monroe could make his call from their new phone shanty.
He settled into the small structure, which sat near the road between the house and the nursery buildings. A basic touch-tone phone sat on the built-in table, and Monroe dialed Polly Duff ’s number from memory. He was expecting to leave another message, but she picked up after the third ring.
“Jah, who’s this?” she demanded. She still used an old phone that didn’t have caller ID.
Monroe chuckled. “It’s Monroe, Polly. Did I catch you when you were making a call?”
“Bishop! Gut to hear your voice,” she said. “I can guess what you’re calling about, and there’s gut news and bad news. Edna finally made it home from the hospital, couple of days ago—”
Monroe’s heart pounded with rising hope.
“—but yesterday, Chester took a fall while tending his livestock. Had to get checked out at the emergency room to be sure he didn’t have a concussion,” Polly went on. “If it weren’t for bad luck, those folks would have no luck at all.”
A frustrated sigh escaped him. “So he’s in no shape for me to bring Leola home?”
“He’s got to lay low for a week or so, to be sure his head’s on straight,” Polly replied, laughing at her own joke. “I’m taking supper over to them tonight, so I’ll let them know you called again.” She paused. “Dare I ask how Leola’s doing? I feel mighty bad about her being at your place for so long without her medications.”
“Some days she’s fine, and other times she pitches a fit or cries for no particular reason.” Monroe chatted for a few more minutes before hanging up. Polly seemed fascinated that he was living at a converted campground, and she was pleased that his house was nearly finished.
“So you’ll soon be marrying that lucky lady you told me about?” she asked. “I’m so pleased that you’ve found somebody to spend the rest of your days with, Bishop. I wish you all the best—and I hope I’ll get to meet her someday.”
“You’ll like Christine,” Monroe assured her. “We’ll make a point of coming to see you after we get settled—and I hope to see you when I come for my horses and household belongings, too.”
“I’m counting on it. You’re in my prayers every day, Bishop Monroe,” she said wistfully. “Just isn’t the same around here without you.”
Monroe hung up and sat for a moment, gazing at the dense woods across the highway from the Helmuth place. At least the Duffs were home from Chicago and Edna was improving. He needed to be patient for another couple of weeks . . . give Chester a chance to recover from his fall. The sight of bright green buds on some of the trees gave him hope: just as spring would soon come to Promise Lodge, his own dreams would eventually bud and blossom if he kept believing in them.
Chapter Twenty-Two
For Rosetta, the following week passed quickly and joyfully. She made her wedding dress from the beautiful blue fabric Truman’s mamm had given her and then took it over to the Wickey place to show it off. She and Irene visited for a long time while Truman was away at the townhomes he was landscaping—and she was pleased that her future mother-in-law had asked Truman and his men to clear out the dining room and his bedroom. The new furniture would arrive on Saturday, and Irene was eager to see what Rosetta had chosen.
Rosetta and Christine helped Mattie plant more of her garden plots, and—despite their objections—Rosetta also helped the Kuhn sisters bake pies and bars to freeze for her and Truman’s wedding. After the girls had finished painting at the Helmuth house on Monday and Tuesday and Allen had installed their plumbing, Rosetta, her sisters, and the men helped Sam and Simon move their furnishings into their new home on Wednesday. It was exciting to walk through the huge two-story house, where each couple had bedrooms on either side of the big kitchen and front room they would share.
“It’s clear the Helmuths plan to fill all those bedrooms with kids,” Rosetta remarked to her sisters as they walked back to the lodge. “That’s the biggest house I’ve ever seen!”
Christine slipped her arm around Rosetta’s shoulders. “Unless I miss my guess, you and Truman will be starting your own family soon—and I can’t wait!”
“I’m looking forward to having wee ones in the family again,” Mattie agreed. “Truman will make a wonderful dat. He’s always got a ki
nd word, and he’s as patient as the day is long.”
How do I know I’ll be able to conceive? Rosetta wondered. And what if the child’s impaired because I’m too old to be having a first baby?
She focused on the budding trees and the blue sky spotted with fluffy white clouds. Whatever happened, she and Truman would handle it—with God’s help—so fretting was a waste of her time. Rosetta set aside her worries to join in her sisters’ conversation, because their excitement was contagious.
“I can’t wait to see how Ruby decorates your two chocolate wedding cakes,” Christine said. “But no matter what she does for trim, that mocha frosting will have everyone going back for seconds.”
“Jah, it’s gut that Ruby’s doubling the usual amount of cake,” Mattie joined in. “I suspect that even if guests from Coldstream or on Truman’s side didn’t come, we Promise Lodge folks could polish off both of them.”
As they entered the lodge, they saw Laura, Phoebe, Lily, and Fannie gathered around the worktable in the kitchen, snacking on brownies and milk. Their old work dresses and kerchiefs were splotched with blue, yellow, and off-white paint. “We needed a little energy boost,” Phoebe explained as her sister and friends nodded. “We’ve painted all the ceilings at Bishop Monroe’s house—”
“And we’ve done the front room and the kitchen,” Lily chimed in. “My legs are telling me I’ve been going up and down ladders for three days now.”
Christine snatched a brownie from the open pan. “I’d be delighted to paint the lower half of the walls if you girls would do the high parts,” she said.
Rosetta smiled as she took a brownie. “I’ll put on my painting dress and come along, too. Many hands make light work.”
“You’re on! We’ll see you up there in a few!” Fannie challenged, gazing at her friends. “We could get the upper walls of the upstairs hallway done before Rosetta and Christine show up and stay ahead of them—and out of their way.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Phoebe said, grabbing another brownie. She looked at the pan, which had four brownies left in it. “Let’s take these to Allen. Installing toilets and sinks is hard work, too—and he’s been nice enough to open our paint buckets for us.”
Weddings at Promise Lodge Page 21
